


Summer Rains

by Prince_of_Leaves



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Fluff and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:37:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24890158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_of_Leaves/pseuds/Prince_of_Leaves
Summary: Nightmares are when Dean goes.Sweet dreams are when Sam stays.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Kudos: 9





	Summer Rains

Sam says, Dean.

Dean, like colors all swirled together and then painted across clean windows, so you can barely see through and yet you see everything that matters. Dean, like moon rays that light up cold, cold nights when it almost seems there's no sky left. Dean, like handprints on the Impala's shiny surface, tracing them one after the other. Dean, like coffee that's full of sugar, although it doesn't seem like it. Dean, like big brother.

Dean says, Sam.

Sam, like bubbles blown in iridescent hues popping in the air, on skin. Sam, like following a pretty trail, across stepping stones, ribbons of sky. Sam, like springs that have secrets, flowing, rushing. Sam, like a soft, soft song, notes almost mournful, almost wonderful. Sam, like footsteps that say I'm home. Sam, like Sammy.

They're driving and driving, Dean is at the wheel and Sam's shotgun, as usual, as always, like orbits and planets and just how its supposed to be.

Sam always sleeps in the car, breathes like he's dreaming of flowers, the light melts away the nightmares. 

Dean isn't quite sure where they are, there's just so much road ahead sometimes, there is no ending to it. They might be a bit lost. It used to be tattooed in his bones, a map of these lands. The sun calls to new worlds though and people move, a bright future, to make the old days disappear.

Sam cracks his knuckles. 

'I think we're wandering,' Dean admits.

'I know,' Sam sighs so deeply, it feels real, an emotion turning into wings, fluttering inside the car.

'You aren't mad?'

'Do I get mad usually?' Sam isn't quite sure. Dean might know though.

Dean has to think about it.

Sam, frowning when he was late this morning. Dean wants to say, you're too young to have frown lines. He apologizes, I'll be on time tomorrow, promise. Sam, narrowing his eyes while Dean was eating waffles. Eat slowly, he's told him so many times. Dean thinking, I used to cut my waffles up for you when you were a kid, bite sized squares. Sam, rolling his eyes at Dean's old wisecracks.

Honestly, Sam is more patient than he should be.

'No, not really.'

Dean takes his eyes off the road, glances at Sam for a second. Sam is way too tall, what was the spell and why didn't Dean know it.

'I do sometimes. It's not what you think though.'

Sam looks outside his window, thinking, I've spent years here, on this tar, the world outside like pictures moving in some kind of frenzied litany. He feels unreal, as if he'll blur into a story.

He remembers a very young Dean, Dad can we stop, we're going too fast, Dad please. Sam had never felt like that, because he grew up on the road and Dean had run barefoot on grass.

Dad told him to open the window. Sam had latched his fingers into Dean's jacket. Maybe it wasn't the car after all, maybe Dean thought time was swirling him around and all he wanted was to catch it. He never quite did though. He kept tripping and ending up somewhere new altogether.

'I used to like pancakes, remember?'

More syrup ma'am please, sticky cheeks, hands too small.

'We could only order one. Sometimes, very rarely, we could have both and only then you got waffles and you still shared.'

Strawberry jam, whipped cream from a can, linked fingers, world peace.

Dean laughs. Summer rains, jumping in puddles with bright yellow boots, smile lines that should be impossible but no, they're not, having to smile back, as if it's gravity.

'You won't understand,' says Dean importantly. Sam knows so much and Dean wants to tease him for a moment, sees him frown as if it's some kind of puzzle, when it's nothing intellectual at all really.

Dean, says Sam. A statement, a question, a word rolling through the years, the corners, the edges.

Sammy, says Dean. The answer to all the questions he's ever been asked.

'It's a language.'

Sam's great at languages.

Dean flicks his shoulder. Sam rubs at it exaggeratedly, because it doesn't hurt, it's the memory of it, as if he has to do it. It is a life full of Sam and Dean's memories.

Dean had taught him numbers. Your fingers go all the way up to ten, Sammy. Only ten? Then you can use your toes, and you'll get to twenty. After that? Then you can use my fingers to count too. Sam had thought for a bit. I love you like that Dean, he'd said solemnly, I'll count my ears in too.

Dean had grinned at him then, if only he could wrap it up and keep it in his pocket.

'You know sometimes, when you have a pen and a piece of paper and unknowingly you draw all over it? And you draw lots and lots of stars for no reason at all? Like that.'

Once, Dean had drawn stars all over his arms, connecting the freckles. He'd used Sam's new pens.

'That doesn't make sense.'

'It does. It's like sharing with you. It always happens and I hardly even realize it. I've never minded. It's a big sibling thing.'

Being an older sibling is like being in a cult, Sam thinks. They have this imperious manner about them and they'll never let you in. It's true, he doesn't understand this language. Dean always watching out for him in the smallest things, if he can't in the more important ones.

'Did you mind sharing praise?'

'I would rather you get praised than be yelled at. Remember your third hunt? You were only fourteen.' Dean rolls his words in his mouth, so it feels like it's all floating, and Sam needs to catch it.

Sam remembers. Dean had gotten a bruise so bad, Sam thought his skin would stay blue, purple, yellow. He'd let his head rest on Dean's shoulder, the sorry a smudge on the colors.

'It wasn't your fault.'

'If only you thought it wasn't yours.'

Sam, like brushing feathery curls out of his eyes, all warm innocence, so you make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for him, you can't help it.

Dean, like hiccups that won't stop, hold your breath, hold your nose, close your eyes, what's my eyes got to do with it Sam, and giggles that are like balloons.

You can't say no to him. He deserves more.

Sam bought sour jellies and he eats them now, eyes scrunched up, ooh it's so sour, he'll always say, as if he never expects it and then has some more.

'Want some?'

Dean, strawberry cheesecake, raspberry pie, is completely insulted.

Sam laughs. The first snow, sweet cheers that echo through memories, absolute happiness, careless delight. It fills the car and Dean's heart.

'Where are we?' Sam doesn't care anymore, it's a question he's supposed to ask, is all. Someone once said that the Chevy was the best car anyone could ever have. Maybe it isn't the Impala, maybe it's the driver, who always told him he was worth so much.

'Wherever we're meant to be,' Dean opens his window,the air smells like sunflowers and the fields are yellow and there are no signs.

Sam likes the sound of it.


End file.
